Kit Kelen #481 - Mary's

481

Mary's

last of April

which was a Sunday

Caent Fort, Mount Brown, Kilmainham

I call it the hundred flush home

every address should be a poem

whether or not pronounceable

that's how to remember where everyone lives

and here we were

tomorrow Iceland

today all Dublin grey

the twilight might have been Celtic

but it was a Georgian drizzle

washed over Edwardian tiger terrace

you were having a lie in

it was long, it was a Sunday

and while one wishes

not to be a demanding guest

I was nevertheless becoming

a long list of needs

principally for the heating of the indoor tundra

for the wifi-which-wasn't password

how could I have known?

past the polite cough

and creak of stairs

the many flushes of the lazy loo

I began to wonder

if you might not have passed away in the night

which could have been a suicide pact with Michael

how would we tell the guards?

what to do?

being a dog myself

thinking of Frankie

and knowing your proclivities

I considered bursting into the room

all tails wagging

leaping onto the bed

for the little cheeklick

and for the long slobber

for the shake about

and paw ouch

dog's breath

tummy rub

demand

I had a hunch that this all might work

if only I said not a word